By, George.

Yesterday morning a contractor came to the apartment to fix a window in the bathroom, and when I answered the door, I had a sudden thought that Ponch had arrived (finally!) to whisk me away to the PCH on his CHP-issued hog. In reality, he looked more like Jon Favreau’s Hispanic twin.

His name was George and he offered me one of those sparkling smiles that dazzled to the point of bordering between attractive and outright creepy. He greeted me and inserted about 20 exclamation points after my name as if he had just run into an old friend in the aisle at Ralph’s. His black t-shirt was fitted, but not too tight that it made him look like one of those guys with cantaloupe biceps from Gold’s Gym, and he wore a small but sparkly blue stud in his ear. It seemed like an odd choice for a Hispanic contractor, but that’s George for you.

George, my new best friend.

He was immensely likeable, and that’s usually impossible to say about landlord-endorsed workmen. And George further endeared himself to me when he characterized my building’s management team as “kind of idiots, you know?” I knew. He continued, “Your landlord? Seems nice, right? But sometimes calling someone ‘nice’ don’t mean what you think you think it means, am I right?”

I nodded my head enthusiastically because, of course, George was right; I was intoxicated by his lilting accent and the fact that he had punctuated his sentence with a wink, but in all honesty, I wasn’t exactly sure what he was talking about. But that’s George for you.

We spent the next thirty minutes going through the apartment, which in reality takes only about 6.5 seconds, but George was thorough and he wanted to make sure that he addressed each and every problem. There was no problem too big, “Sure, I can hang a ceiling fan from those 20 foot ceilings, but it will be messy for sure and probably look pretty stupid, you know?” and no problem too small, “You know that painting hanging there is crooked, right? Let me fix it for you!” It was the first time anyone has paid that much attention to me in months, and though I knew this man about as well as I knew steady employment, I was tempted to invite him to join me in a bowl of Boo Berries. That’s just George for you.

George finally retreated to the bathroom to repair the shower window, and when he emerged just 15 short minutes later, he was triumphant. “Come, take a look at my work!” The window was fixed, the bathroom was clean, and the tub looked curiously whiter than it had an hour before. “Oh yes, I noticed that someone did just a disastrous caulking job, so I fixed that for you too! Looks good, right?” Right. Good. Very good and right. It was the easiest – and by far the most pleasant – 45 minutes I’ve spent with anyone.

We finished up the paperwork, and just before he left, George sheepishly asked if he could use the bathroom. Of course – anything for you, George.

In the meantime, I checked email. And after a few minutes, I headed into the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I did, I stuck my head around the corner and noticed that the bathroom door was still curiously closed. Maybe George noticed another problem. Yes, that must be it. I plopped myself down on the couch and waited for George to open that door and tell me that while fixing my leaky faucet, he had discovered a cure for cancer.

But with each passing minute, I became increasingly nervous. What was taking so long? It takes – what? – thirty seconds to pee, tops? I calculated the odds that George was suffering from a urinary tract infection, and determined that this would still only warrant an acceptable two minutes in the bathroom. But George had been in there a good ten minutes already. Was he sick? Should I call out and ask if he’s OK?

Just as I decided that he must have fallen and hit his head, George emerged from the bathroom, victorious – his dazzling smile in check and looking just as triumphant as I expected. “Thank you very much! We’ll be talking soon!” he said, as he headed straight out the front door. It was kind of an odd departure considering the bond we had formed. No hug? Perhaps George had left another surprise in the bathroom in the form of a repaired cabinet? Yes, that would just be soooo George.

As I headed toward the bathroom, I realized George did leave me a surprise, and my heart sank. It seemed George emerged triumphant for an entirely different reason, and a familiar stink was quickly seeping through the apartment. It was the smell of someone trying to cover his tracks. It was the smell of someone disregarding personal boundaries. It was the smell of betrayal.

Technically, it was the smell of a smoldering match and its poor attempt at masking the stench of a freshly brewed poo.

Yes, George took a giant dump in my house. Worse, in the one toilet in my house. That’s located in my bedroom. I started thinking about what sort of circumstances would force a stranger to shit on another’s throne. Presumably, it must have been an emergency. However, the more I thought about “emergency shitting” the more nauseous I became. I imagined George rushing in and pulling up his slightly fitted tee as he sat down just before his ass exploded like water exiting an elephant’s trunk. Had I not been so repulsed by my soiled toilet, I would’ve thrown up in it.

I went into panic mode. Everything would need to be sanitized, disinfected, and scrubbed with a toothbrush – ideally George’s. No, I’d just demand a new toilet. Of course that would mean that George would be the one to install it. Fine, I’d just have to move.

I didn't understand – in ten minutes time, my whole morning had been turned upside down. I still couldn’t believe it. Who craps in a stranger’s house?

That’s George for you.